


A Templar and a Mage Walk Into a Bar

by Jaeger Gipsy Danger (Carleen)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dorian and Cullen meet for the first time, Dorian's Parents - Freeform, Dragon Age Pre-Haven, Dragon Age Romance, Loneliness, Loss, M/M, The pain of being misunderstood, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-16 12:15:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28956312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carleen/pseuds/Jaeger%20Gipsy%20Danger
Summary: A rebel and a misfit Dorian Pavus finds himself trapped in a meeting with his betrothed. He chafes at the thought of chaining himself to her and everything she represents. No one expected the evening to turn out well. But she's under pressure from society and her family to drag this man to the alter. She decides to give it one more try.
Relationships: Dorian Pavus/Cullen Rutherford, Livia Herathinos & Dorian Pavus
Comments: 3
Kudos: 20





	A Templar and a Mage Walk Into a Bar

**Author's Note:**

> The dialogue between Livia and Dorian was borrowed from the conversation between Susan Johnson (Jill Eikenberry) and Arthur Bach (Dudley Moore) in the 1981 movie "Arthur" One of my favorite movies, it also contains the iconic lines "A real women could get you to stop drinking, Arthur." "She'd have to be a real big woman," replied Arthur.

* * *

"Actually, what I had in mind was spending the evening with a stranger who loves me." Dudley Moore, _Arthur_ (1981)

* * *

  
When the restaurant crowd isn't gossiping about the high society couple in their midst, they stare openly. No one could deny they weren’t well-matched. But the man’s reputation preceded him, so they know a powder keg when they see one. He’s impossibly well-dressed, handsome, wealthy, and charismatic. However, he’s a known libertine, which marked him suspect for polite society yet entertaining fodder for the gossip mill. As famous for his magical prowess as his nobility, the man had few rivals. Oh, yes, they remind themselves there is that laetan boy from Marnas Pell. The son of a fisherman, isn’t that right? True, but hasn’t m'Lord already seduced and bedded him? Seduced, bedded, and buggered, one of them says. They snickered behind their wine glasses at the remark. Their attention retrieved when the lady emptied her wine glass for the third time (Yes, they’re counting.) With a toss of toss her blue-black hair, she stared down her elegant nose at her dining partner. It seemed she’s about to speak. Perhaps she’s bored with pushing the sea bass around on her plate? Rare and costly seabass, they know. When you lived in the rarified air of these two ordering an expensive meal is done for effect; eating it was considered common. The crowd leaned forward.

“How difficult can this be to understand?”

“Lower your voice,” he hissed. “Perhaps I object at being manipulated into meeting you in a public place surrounded by strang...Let's just say this isn't where your father lunches and leave it at that.”

She sniffed at his discomfort. “You could set this room ablaze with a snap of your fingers,” she replied, then cast her violet eyes around the room. With a shuffling of silver and linen napkins, the diners obediently turned back to their plates.

He also emptied his wine glass in one go to combat the urge to run or stay and fight to the end. He wants to run, intends to run, but there was nowhere to go and no one in his social circle to offer shelter. There was Felix, but he was ill. While Felix’s father, the man who had once been his mentor and father figure, no longer welcomed him into their home. He nearly bowed his head from the ache in his chest. Everything in him rebelled at his parent’s attempts at controlling his life and the woman who tricked him into meeting here. The woman who since the age of ten was referred to as his betrothed. Marry the girl who taunted and teased everyone in their Circle and slept with all the boys, and if the gossip were true, more than a few girls?

He didn’t begrudge her proclivities, but nothing about this woman spoke to him of partnership or a marriage of equals. That a child of his loins--he'd have to fuck her first, wouldn't he, might become tainted by her sickened him. This evening wasn’t going well at all. But then, he never expected it to. He guessed by traditional standards she was perfect. Raven hair framing a heart-shaped face. Full breasts exposed to his gaze—he imagined as a sign of her fertility—nipples peaking from heirloom lace. Full lips— _Maker’s balls_ , he suddenly remembered visiting the private zoo of some dodgy old Magister. The monkeys terrified the sensitive eight-year-old. The screeching females with their genitals displayed full and red. Precisely like the full lips pouting at him from across the table.

He rolled his grey eyes at her and signaled for a refill.

“Don’t you get it, Dorian? Close your eyes and think of the Imperium or how happy your mother will be or whatever it takes in this Maker-forsaken world for you to take thirty seconds—he shot her a withering look. She waved her hand. “Sixty seconds to impregnate me. Then you can go straight back to your drunken nights debauching boys.”

An elf silently refilled his glass and backed away. Without looking, he emptied his glass to push down the panic burning its way into his throat. He tried to imagine his parent’s wedding night when his father closed his eyes and thrust his seed into his mother while planning how quickly he could get back to his mistress. And his mother also closing her eyes and obediently accepting his father’s spend. They’re not so obedient offspring Dorian Pavus came into the world out of that single loveless night.

“Livia, why would you tolerate…?”

She slapped her hand on the table hard enough to shake the plates. The tiny silver spoon meant to serve the outrageously expensive caviar jumped out of its silver dish.

“Andraste’s burning pubic hairs (she also swore creatively). Do you imagine I tolerate anything? Thousands of years of tradition, and you're the only one who can't behave.”

The crowd murmured, and gold changed hands. Then her tone transformed from arrogant to the all too familiar way his mother spoke to him after he had misbehaved again.

“Do you?” She slammed her wine glass down. This time the crystal shattered. “Dorian, you are remarkably dense about such things. My father is ill. I am his only heir. I shall reside at my family’s estate to oversee the operations of our many enterprises. Did you imagine I would install myself in your dreary little parlor to serve endless glasses of tea to those empty-headed ninnies of the Archon’s court?” She huffed and dismissed the notion with a toss of her head. “I can manage that perfectly well in my own home."

Dorian, one marriage. One night. One child. No one is asking for anything more from us than that. The idea that I might spend more than an hour on that farmstead you call an estate. I can picture the parade of men sneaking up the _wooden_ stairs (in her father’s home, the stairs, _all the stairs_ were marble) while I pour for the dowagers and their daughters.” A bottom lip pouted, and she paused. “I seem to remember that your mother has only porcelain tea service. We’ll have to make sure we receive a silver and gold service as a wedding gift—something unique from Navarra.” She wrinkled her nose. “Not some tacky thing from Orlais.

 _Speaking of tacky._ _You overblown virago._ He was about to point out that the porcelain tea service had been in his family for generations. Hand-painted and designed by a master craftsman. But he’d had enough. If only he could force himself to marry her. If he went through with the marriage, everyone would be happy. They’d become leaders of Tevinter society. Their children, lavishly educated and well-mannered. The thought of his children growing up in a world like his proved unthinkable, so he stopped thinking. Forced the guilt and the what-ifs down. He would never have children. Silly to even think about the possibility.

What of him? Must he always be alone? What of the sob of grief boiling his gut when he woke, as he always did, alone? Trapped in a web of familial politics, tradition, and expectation. He often dreams of a man without a face, just a warm presence of strong arms holding him with affection and cradled against the sturdy frame. Perhaps the sticky evidence of last night's passion glues their hips together. When he awakens the man will press his hips against the man's morning erection pressing and wiggling until Dorian gasps. Then just as the man pulls him over on his back. At the moment when his hands reach up to touch he wakes up in a lonely room. body. Suffocating, he often weeps out his frustrations into his pillow. The servants knew better than to enter his bedroom. So, they hovered silently outside his door.

He knew what would happen. Eventually, he’d give in and marry Livia. Take his father’s place in the Magisterium. Years would pass with him attempting to push his reforms until, like a moth beating itself against a lamp, he would grow old. Then, nearly buried in a sumptuous bed with silk sheets and velvet pillows, he would finally die surrounded by his children and grandchildren without anyone knowing the man named Dorian. Once united, their family’s wealth would increase as quickly as their social standing. Invitations to the Archon’s soirees would become a weekly occurrence. They might even receive him into their home. Realistically, someday, he did want children in the future. Someday. The time for wishing and if-only was over. What did his mother often say? ‘If wishes were horses, then elves would ride.’

“Darling, I’m afraid our conversation has reached its nadir. You’ve insulted my family, my home, and my delicate sensibilities.” He leaned forward to whisper in her ear. The wave of lavender thickened when she squeezed her arms to push her breasts together. He could only imagine it as a final effort. “Livia, you must see. There isn’t enough magic or gold in all Thedas that would induce me to lay with you. If I choose to waste my time in another man’s arse, he will at least appreciate it. Good evening, madam.” Aimed like an arrow, his vulgarity earned him a gasp and the fluttering of perfectly manicured hands. _Perfect_. With an aborted bow, the heir to House Pavus mustered his pride, tossed twice the amount of gold needed to pay their bill to the table, and fled into the street.

His father would be outraged. His mother? She would dissolve into tears. Then, after three days of shouting and blaming each other, she would disappear into her bedroom and his father into his study. One of his strongest memories was of his younger self standing confused and alone in the hallway halfway between his parents' bedroom doors. All so predictable, it made his stomach churn. He was almost twenty-nine years old, but the pain of their displeasure ground into him as if he were five.

The sound of applause followed him out the door.

Three blocks from the restaurant, he stumbled into a tavern on a shadowed street. The subdued lighting and worn oak tables were the opposite of the gilded chandeliers and red velvet. Here he could be himself. It suited him. Customers stood shoulder to shoulder, effectively barricading him from the bar.

 _Venhedis._ "Medical crisis, good people. You are between me and a cure.”

Several heads turned. One or two of them recognized the Altus. “Lord Pavus, right this way—a path is clear to the bartender—Oy, Pavus. What’s your poison?—On the house, ser.”

Drink in hand, Dorian finally separated himself from well-wishers. Only to find the tables also full of late-night partiers. Ah, by the fireplace, he noticed a table with a single occupant. Dorian made his way over.

“Do you mind, ser? The place is overrun.”

“As you wish. Be warned, though. You are choosing to share a table with a soporati.”

“Well, if that’s the worst I’ve ever done.” Dorian seated himself, peering into the shadows. “You are rather blond, aren’t you and not only non-magical but...”

“Yes, and more than that. I’m a Templar, and one more thing, I’d rather drink in peace.”

The evening just got interesting. Dorian leaned forward, his gray eyes glittering in the candlelight. “Was that a warning? Are you here to Smite us?”

A hint of a smile pulled at Dorian’s attention. The man leaned forward. “Yes, of course. All of you. All at one time.”

Blond, handsome, with a genuine smile revealing healthy white teeth. Where had this golden lion come from, and why was he here? The scar on his lip? A story impatient for the telling. Yet, there was a hint of tension around the eyes and exhaustion etched into the pale features. Dorian loved a good puzzle and the attention of a good-looking man. There was a story here, and he would discover it. Livia, his parents, and the restaurant retreated from his thoughts.

A server interrupted, tempting Dorian to set him on fire. “May I bring you something, my Lord?”

"Whiskey. The best. Just bring the bottle and two glasses. _Silently_.” Dorian waved him away in a fair imitation of Livia's and wrapped his hands around his mug. The unadorned clothes did nothing to hide the charisma. The worn hands, the scar, and the broad shoulders told him this man was a soldier. Dorian leaned forward, anticipating the man’s answer. He began to feel unmasked before the silent hooded eyes. The man’s name. The color of his eyes. The scar on his lip. He must know.

“Other than stealing our magic, what brings you to Tevinter?” 

A golden eyebrow raised. “Steal magic?” 

Dorian made a show of examining the whiskey in his glass. How dare this stranger gaze at him as if he didn’t know Dorian’s identity. He’d wager half the people in this tavern knew him at least by his family name. Dorian made a show of pouring more whiskey.

“Well, one hears such frightful stories about the treatment of Southern mages.”

“Such as?”

Dorian waved his glass. “It was only yesterday that I overheard someone at one of those"—Dorian rolled his eyes as if the man across from him understood such things as boring garden parties— “saying, Templars eat mages for breakfast. Remarkable, if true. So, tell me, Sir Templar, do _you_ eat mages for breakfast? Tell me everything. I won’t judge.”

The light changed, revealing the man’s eyes. Gold, no amber, no one had eyes that shade in Tevinter. The disarming star made him shift in the chair. _Dammit!_

“Which do you want to hear first, why I’m in Tevinter or if I eat mages for breakfast?”

There was a mischievous glint in the man’s eyes, and no one could convince him otherwise. Well, Dorian could play, too. He was good at it. His wit a point of pride. “Oh, I have a list going. You decide. I’ll add more as we go.”

“If you insist. The truth is, I’ve never thought of mages as a breakfast food. You know how some foods don’t seem to go with anything but breakfast? My preference is an evening of conversation, perhaps a game of chess, a warm fire, and a glass of good whiskey.”

Dorian forgot to swallow. Inexcusable. To further betray his upbringing, suddenly and without warning, the whiskey reverted to peat. And to his utter horror, he started choking. A work-worn hand pushed a mug of water toward him. 

“Drink this before you try to speak again. My name is Cullen, and your name, based on what I heard from the crowd, is Lord Pavus.” A clean and neatly folded handkerchief also appeared. 

Once he caught his breath, Dorian could only stare at his companion.

“Excuse the impropriety, my lord, but your mustache is…”

“Is what?” What is this man going on about? No doubt about it, Southerners were barbarians. How rude! “My grooming is unimpeachable.” 

“Askew.”

Unnerved and unbalanced, Dorian’s usual milieu hovered on the edge of…what? Panic? Hysteria?

The man wielded a sword and, therefore, a shield. An image flashed in his mind of a shirtless man—Dorian’s mind obediently supplied the accompanying scars, striking at his enemies without mercy. No, not simply shirtless, better than that. His golden man dressed in nothing more than an Avvar loincloth. The fur boots hugging muscular calves. Sweat gliding and slipping like oil over the muscled chest, soaking the leather band of the loincloth slung low—embracing slender hips. The swell of arousal straining against the thick leather codpiece.

He’d start there…after a proper kiss or two…then taste each scar as he moved down the magnificent chest. Until finally, at the urging of his now breathless warrior, he’d push his tongue under the leather band…tasting the salty sweat…and it would be natural, wouldn’t it. Not the often overbearing taste and smell of scented oil, but the sweat of a man who worked for his living. The scent of the man leaning toward him lent his imagination all it needed to complete the image— _Maker’s breath._

“Are you quite alright, Lord Pavus?”

Dorian blinked at the man. His ridiculous blank stare earned him a smile.

“Perhaps a bit of fresh air?” His Avvarian warrior extended his sword hand.


End file.
